When clouds are seen, wise men put on their cloaks;
When great leaves fall, then winter is at hand.
_Ibid._
Not far from the shores of a sunny lake in the depths of the American
forest stood the rude log-hut of an emigrant. The site was one of
surpassing loveliness—for nature here, in her unbounded domain, had
done the work of ages, and the majestic oak towered in silent grandeur
beside the graceful elm and the drooping willow, making mockery of art.
Birds of glittering plumage sang all day in this wildwood retreat—for,
save this one log-cottage, for miles and miles around was no human
habitation. The slight clearing, scarcely sufficient for a garden-patch,
sloping down to the water-side, told of no hardy adventurer hunting
fortune in the wilderness of the new world; and it would have puzzled
even a Yankee of this present age to have _guessed_ at the pursuit or
object of the tenants of that forest home, so contradictory seemed they
in outward aspect.
The family consisted of but four members—a tall, noble-looking man, a
little past the meridian of life, with piercing eyes, and dark locks
sprinkled with white, falling rather thinly over his broad forehead. His
dress was of the plainest, coarsest drab cloth; indeed, there was
nothing to distinguish it from that of the negro servant who attended
him, except the natural grace and dignity imparted by the manly form of
the wearer. The other two occupants of this secluded abode were a young
girl, who might have numbered seventeen summers, and an elderly female,
who had once been her nurse, but who was now a sort of housekeeper in
general, inasmuch as there was none other to superintend the domestic
arrangements; but had you taken a peep into the interior of the cottage,
you would have seen no lack of comfort, and even some faint show of
taste, considering the dearth of material. A coarse carpet was thrown
over the rough log-door, and ranged around the sides of the apartment
were rustic seats composed of branches of trees, covered, sofa-like,
with skins of animals, forming comfortable couches for sitting or
reclining. Indian blankets, tastefully embroidered, served as a
partition between this and a small room adjoining, which was fitted up
for the young lady’s boudoir, and which was occupied in common by both
females. Here, on a table of oak, covered with kid-skin, lay a few
books, and a guitar, evidently the relics of other days. A large
sea-shell served for a vase, and stood on the rude table, filled with
wood-flowers, the first gift of summer. Perhaps, too, you might have
noticed some large, massive chests in either apartment, and wondered how
such ponderous articles had found place in so small a habitation; but we
have a key to the mystery, reader, and will give it thee, together with
the secret of this secluded family.
Some eighteen months prior to the time our chapter commences, a
gentlemanly-looking resident of the new Quaker city, calling himself,
John Brown, saw every where posted up, by order of the new king,
directions for the seizure and arrest of all persons known or supposed
to be implicated in the fate of Charles Stuart—with large rewards held
out as an incentive, to those who should successfully aid the king’s
officers in their search.
It was an hour of darkness to many a poor fugitive, for disguises were
no longer to be trusted, and life’s last hope lay in strict concealment
in rocks or forests, or amid the haunts of the savages. Every tie of
kindred was now to be sundered—every communication with the world of
mankind to be cut off, and the wanderer was henceforward to live with
all the golden threads of being rudely snapped by a tyrant. There was no
time to be lost, for “blood for blood” was the royal watchword, and his
legions were on the track.
Brown was fully alive to his danger, but with the cool, undaunted heart
of a man accustomed to war with obstacles, he sat down calmly to
meditate the best course of procedure. To remain a day longer in the
city he knew full well was madness, and every hour was fraught with
danger. Could he leave here in a land of strangers, alone and
unprotected save by one frail woman, the delicate blossom he had
cherished as “Love’s lost token,” and borne over the waters to cheer his
declining age? How could he talk of a separation of years, perhaps
forever, from the gentle creature, whose life was all centered in
his—how could she bear this last stroke also? True, he had
wealth—treasures of gold and silver; wealth would purchase friends, but
dangerous friends, too, he thought, for a lonely orphan girl.
He sat deep in thought for a moment longer, then reached his hand and
touched a silver bell, exclaiming—“It shall be as _she_ wishes. I will
abide _her_ choice at all events!”
The ring was speedily answered by a good-looking man-servant.
“I here, Massa Brown,” said the ebony, making a full display of ivory.
“Is Miss Anna in, Carle?” inquired the master.
“Do no! rudder tink she be, Massa.”
“Go then, and tell her I would see her. Be quick, Carle, and do you wait
until I call, for I shall want you again soon.”
A moment after, a fairy-like creature bounded into the presence of her
father, and winding her arms caressingly around his neck, waited his
pleasure.
“You are ill, dear father,” said she at length, observing his pale
forehead. “I have wasted all the morning on my pet birds, thinking you
were out as usual.”
He kissed her cheek fondly, and replied—
“I did go out, my child, but quickly returned, for there is danger
abroad, and there is no more rest for thy father. ’Tis a mournful
summons for thee, darling, but there is no time to be lost in revealing
the true cause of it. I must flee speedily, or the new king’s officers
will soon bear me back to drop my head at Whitehall. Bear it bravely,
Anna, you are my own daughter, and know well the happy days of the
Protectorate are ended. There is gold, more than sufficient for all thy
wants!”
“But, father, _you_ are _my wealth_; all the treasure of this world to
me! Whither would you flee, and wherefore leave me behind?”
“I know not, daughter—some secret hiding-place where the hand of a
Stuart may not reach me, far from the abodes of civilized life. Every
thing is to be encountered—want in its worst forms, and you, who have
been nurtured in a palace, could poorly cope with cold and hunger! Stay
here, my child, amid ease and plenty, and let thy father go forth to
meet his fate alone.”
“No, father, Anna Temple is not the weak child you suppose, if you can
urge her to forsake her gray-haired parent, because, perchance she must
leave behind the downy pillow on which she was cradled! There is no
privation in going which I cannot readily undergo, and who knows,
father, but we may make us a new home in the wilderness. At all events,
wherever thou goest I will go, and thy lot shall be mine for ever!”
The noble Lord Temple—for the self-styled John Brown was no other than
the friend and ally of Cromwell, clasped his child to his heart, and
said—
“If this be your wish, Anna, I will see what can be effected in a few
brief hours. Carle must be summoned immediately, and you may proceed to
put in as small compass as possible your own treasures and your mother’s
relics, and provide yourself with plain Quaker apparel, for such must be
our disguise. Judy, your old nurse must be let into the secret without
loss of time, and I will inform Carle; the other servants must be kept
in the dark.”
Anna departed with alacrity to obey the directions of her father, for in
her breast the fount of life still sparkled with the delightful romance
of youth; while her sire, who had seen bubble after bubble rise and
break upon its surface, proceeded with emotions entirely different to
unfold to the faithful Carle the plan of procedure.
The trusty negro was directed to go and purchase a number of suits of
Quaker clothing for his master, with the broad-brim hat, to render the
disguise as complete as possible, while he, himself made haste to fill
the large chests they had brought over sea with treasure, and whatever
they would be most likely to need in their unknown resting-place; and in
less than three hours every thing had been prepared for their departure.
John Brown, with his felt-hat and wide lappel made a pattern Quaker, and
Anna looked rogueishly out from beneath her straight bonnet—then arose
the question when, and how they should depart. After some consultation,
it was agreed they should wait until nightfall; when master and the
ladies should set forward on foot, and walk on as fast as possible, and
Carle should put the carriage-horses into an emigrant’s waggon, with
boxes, chests, etc., not forgetting a supply of axes and fire-arms, and
meet them at a spot designated a few miles from the city.
There remained but one more apparent difficulty; the other servants of
the household must be informed of their sudden purpose, as all efforts
to conceal their departure would be ineffectual, and the truth could not
be confided to them with safety. The disguises were again thrown aside,
the servants all summoned, and Lord Temple addressed them, thus—
“I have received an unexpected summons from the new king, and must
depart immediately. I shall take but Carle with the young mistress and
her nurse, and leave the rest of you in charge of the house until our
return; but should any thing occur to prevent my coming back in the
spring, you are one and all entitled to your freedom. Until then you
will be faithful to the interest of your master!”
“Yes, massa. Lord bless good Massa Brown and young missey, too!” chimed
in half-a-dozen voices at once; for the refugee had maintained an
independent household, and lived as became a man of wealth and fashion.
He had left England immediately after the death of Cromwell, foreseeing
the probable issue of the Protectorate; and wishing to spend the residue
of his days in peace, he dropped at once his name and title, and was
known only in the young city as a private gentleman of good fortune.
That night, when all was hushed in the good “City of Brotherly Love,”
Lord Temple, with his daughter and nurse Judy, stole softly from their
new and pleasant home, to seek some sheltering asylum from the merciless
hand of persecution. They walked on in silence until they gained the
outskirts of the city, the young and delicate Anna clinging to both her
father and nurse; for the deep silence of the night filled her heart
with strange fancies.
“Your strength is not sufficient for your purpose, Anna,” said her
father, noticing how nervously she clung to him. “The way will be long
and solitary for a tender child like you! Will not my daughter return
now to a home, that will afford her still a shelter at least?”
“And would not the way seem longer and darker to my father, if his only
child were behind him? Think not because I tremble a little now at first
that my heart is weak and cowardly. I have never before walked in the
street at midnight, you know, and every rustle seems a king’s officer to
me.”
“Bless you, my darling,” exclaimed her father. “The blood of the
Temple’s is in your veins, warm and noble; I cannot bear to see it
chilled by misfortune.”
“I have no regrets for the world we are leaving behind save on your
account, my dearest father; on the contrary, I feel it will be charming
to dwell alone in the great forest of the West, where the fetters of
fashion, pride and ambition will cease to enthral, and we may learn of
the great Creator by the infinity of his works, instead of the multitude
of man’s words.”
Thus did the brave girl attempt to cheer the desponding spirits of her
father as they moved forward amid the darkness of their solitary way.
They directed their course northward, and although they were in the main
road, the “woods of centuries” were all around them, and their giant
shadows seemed like some spectral army gathered in the gloom of night.
The morning dawned on the little band nearly ten miles from the city,
and although they had two or three times paused for a little rest by the
wayside, it found them weak and weary; but the spot where they were to
turn aside and wait for their wagon and refreshments was near, and they
pressed forward. Their stopping-place was a few hundred yards from the
road-side—a beautiful spot, by a spring of fresh water, where hunting
parties often stopped to regale themselves with a dinner of game, or at
least, to quaff a drink of water from the spring. Carle had often been
there, and had described the spot so minutely it could not be mistaken;
and when at length they seated themselves, and Judy took from her pocket
some cakes, which, woman-like, she had been provident enough to bring
along with her, their drooping spirits revived, and they ate the morsel
cheerfully and drank from the spring, for they were faint as well as
weary.
It was a bright morning of early autumn! The breath of summer yet
lingered in the air, though the mists were on the hill-tops, and the
forest was tinged with the faintest hue of red—the first presage of
decay.
“O, father, is it not magnificent!” exclaimed Anna Temple, as she
pointed to the boundless woods rising like an ampitheatre on either
hand! “This is like what I have read of the new world, only more sublime
if possible. Positively there is more of grandeur in this one scene than
in all the courts of royalty in the world. Why, just see—the Eastern
kings have never worn mantles more elegantly tinged with scarlet and
gold, than these old patriarch trees have put on. It really makes our
Quaker garb look sombre, and I expect the very birds will be _theeing_
and _thouing_ us as we pass on through their territory.” And the
happy-hearted creature clapped her hands and laughed until the hills
sent back an echo.
“Hush, hush, daughter; there is the rumbling of wheels near—nearer than
the main road, too, I fear! It may be some party of hunters who have
made this a place of rendezvous; it cannot be that foes are thus early
on the track, I think.”
At the mention of foes the cheek of Anna was pale as clay, and she
nestled close beside her father; but a moment afterward she started to
her feet, and the red blood again mantled her brow as she exclaimed:
“’Tis Carle, I really think—’tis only Carle, father! I know by the snap
of his whip, for no other person ever snapped one like him. Why, Judy,
he thinks it time you are making coffee, and has whipped up!”
It was indeed Carle, who came thus unexpectedly upon them, two hours at
least sooner than looked for by his master, who had recommended him to
stay behind until they had got a fair start, lest some suspicious eye
should detect them, and the whole plan be frustrated.
“He! he! he! You got here fust, anyhow,” said the darkey, as he brought
his horses to a stand beside them; “though I tried hard to catch up and
give young missy a ride. Guess we had better eat breakfast in a hurry
and be off, for some of dem nigger ask a great many question last night
’specting de big boxes we load in. But I guess I set ’em on de wrong
track, any how. He! he! he!”
A flint was produced and fire struck, and shortly after the air was
fragrant with boiling coffee, and a very comfortable breakfast was eaten
on the green grass by the spring side; after which, things were quickly
put in place, and the little company took the seats arranged for them in
the broad, emigrant’s wagon, and sped on as ignorant of their
destination as the ancient patriarch journeying on to the “Land of
Promise.”
For five long, tedious days they went forward as fast as the miserable
state of the roads and the jaded condition of the horses would allow,
stopping occasionally to refresh themselves by some pleasant stream that
crossed their path in the wilderness. They occasionally fell in with
some person who questioned them of their journey, and their reply was
invariably, “Going north to settle;” but one _real Quaker_ was not thus
contented.
“Thee lookest tired friend, wilt thou partake of a brother’s hospitality
on thy way? Nay, no refusal, the young woman looketh sick and needeth a
night’s rest! Rachel will give her nursing right gladly, for no Friends
have crossed our threshold for months.”
It was the third day of their flight, and worn down with fatigue and
loss of rest, they could not resist this pressing appeal of the good
brother, and accordingly the horses were allowed to stop in front of a
large log farm-house on the banks of the Susquehanna.
But the _soi disant_ John Brown had some trouble in sustaining the new
character he had assumed, for he not only made laughable blunders in the
Quaker dialect, but when questioned of the prosperity and welfare of his
brethren in the good city, betrayed an ignorance certainly unwarrantable
in a brother; but his host was a shrewd, sensible man, and soon guessed
more of his guest’s secret than would have rendered his stay comfortable
had he surmised it. But the secret was in safe keeping, and the poor
fugitives were loaded with kindness and sent forward on the morrow with
the nicest provisions of the dairy for their future necessity.
“Beware of New England Friends,” said their hospitable host, with a sly
look, at parting, “or the _good Puritans_ there may send thee back _with
holes in thy tongue_, or _minus ears_.”
The last two days of their journey were beset with difficulties and
dangers. They had forsaken the public way, and their path was literally
in the wilderness, and so thickly strewn with obstacles as to render
every step tedious and toilsome; but death was behind, and the hope of
life before, and so they went forward steadily and patiently.
Near the close of the fifth day they came suddenly into a beautiful
valley, sheltered on all sides by bold hills, and encircling in its
bosom a clear, quiet lake. Not a vestige of human kind was discernible
in this spot, so charming that it seemed fresh from the hand of its
Creator.
“Is not this such a spot as we have been seeking, father?” inquired
Anna, with a pleading look.
“Yes, daughter, if there is peace and safety on earth it must be in this
Eden of the forest. Here we will fix our dwelling-place, in the midst of
this romantic scenery. To-morrow, Carle, we must set to work to prepare
a habitation; you are something of a carpenter I think?”
“O, yes, massa; me learn de trade in good old England, but not wid such
big log as dis.”
We have now traced the flight of the illustrious but unfortunate Judge
Temple from the Quaker city—his first resting-place in the Western
world—to the forest home introduced to our reader at the commencement
of the chapter. More than a year and a half had passed since the
wanderers had sought refuge in the friendly wild, whose shelter had
afforded a safe retreat from friend or foe; for no white face had smiled
or frowned on them in their new habitation. They had lived alone! The
forest and lake supplied them with food, and they had a little garden
which furnished them with vegetables, having brought with them a variety
of seed and utensils for the culture of the soil. They had a few books,
and Anna and her father read together, to while away the long hours of
winter; but in summer they dragged not heavily; for there was life and
beauty around them, and in the warm breast of Anna Temple was a
perpetual fountain of sunlight. To her father she seemed as happy as the
birds that warbled all day in gladness—and she was truly happy—happy
in herself, in her only parent, and in every thing bright and beautiful
around her; still her thoughts in their loneliness often reverted to her
_first home_, and the blessed hours of her childhood.
But not for lost splendor did she dwell thus fondly the memory of the
past, it was for the lost companions of those rainbow-tinted years,
whose fate she might never know. Scattered far and wide over the earth
she knew them to be, but who among them had fallen victims, she vainly
strove to conjecture.
And one among those whose images were linked with her dreams, was the
dark-haired Vaudois student, who had taught her the Alpine shepherd
songs which she still loved to play at nightfall, as she watched the
stars peering out, with their angel-eyes, and she would sometimes weep
as she thought that pale-browed youth might even then be wearing the
golden crown he had so early sought to win.
It surely was a solitary life for an ardent young creature like Anna
Temple to dwell thus apart from the world, shut out from every
association of her earlier and happier years; still she was never for a
moment discontented with her lot. A nest of young birds she fed and
tamed, and every wild-flower of rare beauty was transplanted in her
garden-plot—so her loving heart had food for its impassioned yearnings.
One human creature, too, had found a place in her affections even here
in the wilderness. The summer after their arrival, a party of Indians
from a neighboring tribe had sought, as was their custom, the shores of
this sunny lake to fish. Among them came the chief, with his only
daughter, nearly the same age as Anna.
Weetano was a most superb creature; graceful as a fawn, with eyes clear
and dark as a gazelle’s, and she burst upon them like a glorious
vision—so unlike any thing they had seen, or even fancied. Her father,
the old chief, seemed not at first well pleased to find his summer
retreat invaded by a pale face, but Lord Temple’s courteous address soon
won his favor, and he came with confidence to the cottage, where he was
entertained with so many presents and novelties, that he went and
brought his daughter to see the “white squaw,” as he called Anna, and
hear her sing.
Anna took her guitar and sang with it to the infinite delight of her
visitors, who asked her if the creature were alive, for they had learned
a little English from the fur-traders. She then displayed to the Indian
maiden her treasures, and presented her with a beautiful coral necklace,
that had pleased her fancy better than any thing else. The chief looked
highly gratified to see Anna clasp the trinket round his daughter’s
neck, and he inquired with some pride—“Will the Pale-Lily sail in the
canoe with Red-Bird?” for thus he called his daughter.
Anna was delighted with the novelty of the proposition, and hastened to
accompany her new companion to the lake-side, leaving the old chief with
her father at the cottage. She had never before seen a canoe like
Weetano’s, it was befitting a chief’s daughter, or a princess royal,
with its snowy mat of swan’s-down, and decorated with the quills of the
porcupine and feathers of every hue. The Indian girl seized the paddles,
and jumping into the fairy-looking bark motioned Anna to a seat on the
mat opposite, but with all the romance and enthusiasm of her nature, she
hesitated; for the thing seemed all too frail for the burden of a human
weight on the dark waters.
“Does the white girl fear?” inquired Weetano, in most musical accents.
“Look how Red-Bird can guide a canoe.”
And quick as thought she dipped the oars, and the boat darted away like
a bird on the wing. Round and round she went in swift circles, and a
more picturesque looking creature could not be imagined than the
beautiful forest-girl in the wild costume of her tribe. Her richly
beaded robe, clasped on the right shoulder, fell gracefully over a form
of the most perfect mould, and was confined around the left knee,
leaving the arms and limbs entirely bare; while her long, raven hair
floated wildly over her neck; but encircling her head was a fillet of
beads, into which were woven feathers of the white-hawk—the insignia of
their tribe. Anna gazed with delight and astonishment on the glorious
creature in her fantastic bark skimming the blue lake with a motion as
light and graceful as we image a fairy’s.
The Indian girl soon rowed to the shore again, and Anna now seated
herself on the soft mat beside Weetano with delight, and away they
went—the high-born daughter of Europe and the red forest-maiden in
happy companionship; and though differing widely in outward mien, each
wore the seal of beauty and the air of nobility.
From that day there was an ardent attachment between Anna Temple and the
chief’s daughter. Every day found the little canoe moored at the point
of the lake nearest the cottage, and many a bright summer hour was
passed by them roaming the woods, or sailing the fairy boat, before the
chief and his party were ready to depart. It was with real sorrow that
Anna heard she was to lose her new companion, but Weetano told her they
would come again the next summer, and Pale-Lily should have a canoe like
hers.
Oliwibatuc was the chief of the Mohawks, and his principal village was
about thirty miles from the north shore of the lake. He was a powerful
chieftain, and held a stern body of warriors and braves ready to do his
bidding. His wigwam was hung with the trophies of his own deeds and
daring. He was now going back to sound the war-cry and seek revenge for
the real or fancied injury done his tribe by the French traders on the
Canadian frontier. It was a dark passion and bloody would be its fruits,
but surely one less reprehensible in an unenlightened savage than in
those who wear the garments of Christianity.
The second winter passed more fleetly with our fugitives than the first,
and at the time our chapter commenced they had gathered around them many
conveniences and comforts in their forest home. As the season advanced,
Anna began to watch with impatience for their summer visitors, for she
longed for something to disturb the monotony of her life, and Red-Bird’s
visit would be sure to bring with it new amusements and pleasures.
One morning she descried a speck on the distant water, and exclaimed
with delight—“A canoe, father—it must be a canoe! There is a speck on
the lake; now another, and another—it must be the party of Oliwibatuc
with darling Red-Bird! O, I am so happy! Hasten, and go with me, father,
to the shore to meet and welcome them.”
It was indeed the party of the Mohawk chief, who had come this season to
encamp on the south shore of the lake at a little distance from the
emigrant’s cottage. Their number was much greater than on the summer
preceding, and their dress and appearance far more imposing. Every
warrior wore the tuft of hawk’s-feathers, and a gay wampum-belt, and
Oliwibatuc was borne down almost with his symbolic decorations, among
which the claws of the eagle were most conspicuous. They had come back
from their last campaign victorious, and the savage and Christian victor
must alike wear the regalia in the hour of triumph.
Weetano had been true to her promise, and brought the Pale-Lily a little
canoe, the very counterpart of her own, and after she had gained a
little experience in rowing side by side, they glided over the smooth
waters gathering white lilies in the shallows to wreathe in their hair,
or starting up the wild birds that often lay in multitudes on the bosom
of the lake.
But Anna was not long in discovering that a change was on her young
companion. Weetano was not now the glad, sunny-hearted creature she had
known in the year gone by. Her wild, musical laugh no longer awoke the
mountain echo, and her step had lost its fleetness—for, the delicate
white girl could now outstrip the forest-maiden who so lately
outstripped the deer. She would sometimes sit silent and motionless in
her canoe, gazing down into the deep waters with an intensity that both
surprised and alarmed her companion, and once, when questioned by her,
she replied—“She was listening for whisperings of the Great Spirit.”
“Will the Lily teach Weetano to read the Great Book of the white man?”
inquired the Indian girl one morning, as they were sitting alone in
Anna’s little room. “She has a new brother in her father’s lodge; he is
a Book man, and will not take up the bow and tomahawk! He sings the
songs of the spirit-land, but no war-song; and when Weetano was sick and
dying, he pointed her to the blue home of the weary! Weetano has looked
on the face of her pale brother, and the image of her Brave has faded
from her heart! The Huron’s spirit no longer comes to me in dreams!
Owanaw should take a warrior maiden to his wigwam, and leave the
daughter of the Mohawk to dwell in peace! Teach me the Book then, but
tell it not to Oliwibatuc.”
It has been already stated that the Mohawk chief and his party had
returned from their last campaign victorious. The hair of many a scalp
was braided with serpent-skins around their necks, and twelve young
captives had been brought home to suffer in the presence of the whole
tribe. As they drew near their principal city, the captors sent up a
savage yell, and prolonged it until the hills sent back the sound; but
the aged warriors and the braves who remained at home echoed it not.
Wherefore came they not forth as was their custom, to greet their
triumphant brethren? The silence boded no good, and Oliwibatuc led on
his band with a sullen, down-cast eye. He approached his lodge with the
prisoners and their guard, and entered it in silence; but within, all
was noise and distraction. Hideous outcries, mingled with strange
incantations saluted his ears, and there on a low couch lay the
prostrate form of the chief’s daughter. The low moaning of the poor
maiden was a sad welcome for the old warrior, for Weetano had been the
song-bird of his lodge, and the sunlight of her face had once been the
sunlight of her mother’s. He stood by her couch with stern composure,
and thrice uttered “Weetano,” but the ear of his daughter was dull to
the voice of affection, and the haughty warrior uttered a deep groan,
and bowed his head, for his pride was low.
There was one among the prisoners of Oliwibatuc who looked not unmoved
on the mournful spectacle—one, whose faith taught “Love to enemies,”
and whose mission on earth was that of his Master—_to do good_. It was
a youthful “soldier of the Cross,” that stood a captive in the lodge of
the Mohawk chief. Torture and death he was expecting soon to receive
from the hands of his merciless captors, but the light of his faith was
clear and bright, and his last deed should be one of mercy. He saw that
the disease had formed a crisis, and the poor sufferer seemed rapidly
sinking with exhaustion; but there was still life, and a shadow of hope,
and he approached the stricken chief, and laying his hand gently on his
arm, said—
“The Great Spirit has given the Pale Face the art of healing; if it be
not too late, I will restore thy daughter; but the tumult must first be
hushed!”
There was gratitude in the old chief’s eye: for a tone of sympathy falls
never unheeded, no matter how barren the heart; and with a motion of his
hand the savage din was hushed.
“Yes, save her, and ye shall live, young Pale Face!” murmured the chief.
“She is my only child—the last of the eagle’s nest! Save her, and ye
shall be as Olo, the son of Oliwibatuc, who fell by the great Lakes in
battle!”
The captive knew that a flask of brandy was in possession of one of the
prisoners. The Indians had not then learned its use, though something of
its abuse they had found out in their intercourse with the traders. He
obtained this immediately, and diluting a little with water, put it to
the lips of the poor girl, who lay unconscious of all around her. She
swallowed with great difficulty, and he perceived an unearthly chill in
the perspiration that damped her forehead.
“Blankets and fire, chief,” said the young man, with a trembling voice.
“Soon, or it will be too late! Set these prisoners to work,” added he,
on looking round and perceiving the lodge deserted save by the chief and
his captives. “Hot blankets must be had immediately!” And he set himself
to work, chafing the cold hands of the poor moaning sufferer, with an
activity that manifested the earnestness of his purpose.
Oliwibatuc went to the door of his wigwam, and sent up a cry, that
immediately brought a dozen of his tribe at his feet.
“Fire and hot blankets must be had instantly,” said he, in the tone of
one accustomed to command. “Where is the old woman, Zohah? Summon her
again—the maiden must not die!”
His directions were promptly obeyed. But the red men looked sullen and
displeased to see the young captive employed in the service of their
chief. The old Indian nurse-woman, too, had come again, and seeing the
preparations, she muttered—
“No good! No good! Bad Spirit will not submit, and Good Spirit has
forsaken Weetano! Zohah has used all healing herbs, but—bad, bad.
Zohah’s arts cannot hush the voice from the far south-west! The maiden
has heard the call! She will die!”
“Perhaps, not, mother,” said the young physician, soothingly. “The Great
Spirit can hush the voice. Will you not lend your aid, that the daughter
of your chief may live?”
Thus addressed, old Zohah seemed pleased to follow his directions, and
after the patient had been carefully wrapped in the heated blankets, and
a few more drops of the brandy put into her mouth, they sat down to
watch for its effects, on the unconscious girl. Long, long seemed the
moments of that weary watch, and yet the anxious prisoner could discern
no change. He took her hand in his, and counted the feeble
pulsations—it was still chill and cold, yet his heart encouraged him on
in his ministry of mercy.
“Some herbs, good Zohah. Put some herbs on her feet—the long
dock-leaves will do, if bruised and withered. She must have some more of
the liquid, too,” and for the third time the red beverage was put to her
lips. She now swallowed with less difficulty, and her breath was not so
hurried and faint; still there was no sign of consciousness, and her
attendant relapsed again to his watch, still retaining the wrist of the
sufferer in his hand.
The old chief stood a little apart, gazing with an eagle-eye on every
movement, but not a word had escaped his lips since his first orders had
been obeyed, and he betrayed no sign of weariness, though he had not
been seated since his long march.
An hour afterward, the low moaning had died away, and the voice of the
captive youth whispered in the ears of Oliwibatuc—
“_She sleeps: thy daughter sleeps!_”
“Seven suns have set, and this is the maiden’s first quiet sleep,” said
old Zohah. “The Pale Face brings witch-water.”
“Nay, nay, mother, thy good herbs and gentle nursing have aided the
sufferer; but we must still watch, for on this slumber perhaps, depends
her life.”
The old chief approached his captive, and said in grateful accents—
“Thy life is not sufficient; what boon wilt thou ask at the hand of the
Mohawk?”
“That thou wilt send my fellow-captives back to their country, chief;
and I will still be thy prisoner. They have homes there. I have neither
country nor home. I will stay and watch the recovery of thy daughter,
but let my brethren go without torture.”
It was a great request for an Indian to give up his prisoners, and for a
moment he seemed wavering—then he added—
“It is more than leagues of wampun—but it shall be done. To-morrow,
they shall go, and thou shalt stay in the lodge of Oliwibatuc—not my
prisoner, but my son, instead of Olo.”
All was silence again in that forest wigwam, and the youthful captive
held on his watch. Old Zohah was snoring loudly on one hand, and the old
chief had at last spread his blanket, and laid down to rest after his
weary march. The youth was alone. The deep shadows of the night hung a
solitude over the wilderness, and as he sat there in the rude wigwam of
the savage, his thoughts took backward wing: he was a child again,
climbing the mountain-path with the flocks—gathering wild grapes in the
valleys, and returning to a happy cottage-home at evening. Then a soft
footstep was in his ear, and a gentle tone—_they were his mother’s_! A
little hand was nestled in his, as his sire took the Book of God and
read the words of wisdom from its holy pages; then came back to his
weary heart those home-voices mingling in the evening psalm, and his
face brightened—but memory was soon too faithful to the reality, and a
tear rolled down his cheek.
A new leaf was turned in his life-book! He was a youth in a foreign
land: strange objects were around him—the tones of strangers in his
ears. The cottage of the Alps had been exchanged for a home in a kingly
palace. Men of learning and science had there been his teachers, and his
ardent heart had loved and treasured up the words of wisdom. Gentle
forms had floated around him, and the image of _one_ sweet, youthful
face, was yet a dew-drop on his spirit.
Another leaf—and he was again a wanderer! Another cloud had burst in
storm over his head, and a wide ocean spread its stormy waves betwixt
him and the land of his birth. He had come a fugitive over its waters,
bearing the gospel seed, which he hoped ere long to see springing up in
the boundless field of the west; but a twelvemonth had scarcely passed,
ere a merciless war-party had numbered him with its victims. Persecution
and torture had no power to make his youthful spirit quail, for men of
iron purpose had moulded him for a martyr to his creed, and as he sat
there that night in his lonely watch, he looked upward to his home
above, with a clear unshaken confidence, and forward into the dim,
uncertain future without a fear. He had been the happy instrument of
saving a number of his fellow-beings from torturing death, and on the
morrow they would be restored to home and freedom. He had no home—had
left behind him no kindred, and here, perchance, was the vineyard which
his Master had given him to plant with the “Living Vine.”
Such were the thoughts that rapidly winged their way through the mind of
the young captive as he sat listening to the now low, soft breathing of
the Indian maiden, and his heart was happy in the consciousness of its
right and holy purpose.
There was a low murmur—he turned his head and the dark eye of the
chief’s daughter was fixed upon him with a look of conscious scrutiny,
but in a moment the lids were heavy again with slumber. He went
cautiously to Zohah and awoke her, lest the maiden might fear finding
herself with a stranger. Old Zohah took the cup, and bending over the
couch said—
“Is Weetano thirsty? Here is drink.”
She opened her eyes again, and said—
“Is it you, good Zohah? I dreamed a Pale Face was beside me. Has my
father yet returned?”
“He sleeps weary with the war-chase. He spoke to Weetano, but she
answered not. Will the maiden see her father?”
“No, let him rest until morning. The warrior is aged, and comes to his
lodge weary.”
But the old chief was awake to the first tone of his daughter’s voice,
and he bent over her couch caressingly, saying—
“Red-Bird is better now; she has a new brother, and he has saved her
life! He must slumber now, for the march was long! He shall eat,
hereafter, at the board of Oliwibatuc.”
The captive came forward again, and gave some directions to Zohah for
the remainder of the night, and then gladly lay down as the chief
desired, for the danger was past, and he was sorely fatigued. Sweet were
his first slumbers in the lodge of the Mohawk chief, and his dreams like
the waking vision, were of the Alps; for as the reader has already
imagined, the stranger was no other than Francois Waldo—the Vaudois
peasant-boy.